I will never be able to describe the utter shock, anger, and sadness that ran through me when I opened my deep freezer to put another brick of breastmilk in and noticed that the eleven other bricks had thawed. Most bricks (several breast milk bags collected in a larger ziplock bag for better storage) were back to liquid form. At the same time, a few were still slushy, leading me to believe that whatever caused this had happened relatively recently. It appeared as though the deep freezer had somehow come unplugged and, in turn, ruined 500 ounces of breast milk. Five hundred ounces that I had been collecting for the past nine months. 500. My disbelief wouldn’t let me forget the number.
Feelings of defeat circled my mind as my thoughts attempted to go down a rabbit hole, but I refused to entertain any of them. Immediately I felt as though I’d been robbed and became sad. Sad at the hours lost from the work it took to put away that much milk. Sad at the time away from my son those pumping sessions took, only to be ruined by a stupid plug! It seemed like a cruel joke. How could this even happen? I’d read about this happening but never imagined it would or could ever happen to me, yet there I was.
Thank God for the support of my husband, who reminded me that it was okay to be upset and encouraged me to talk about it even though I was so shocked that I couldn’t stop repeating myself. He reminded me of how well I handled the situation, something old me wouldn’t have done so well. And I am proud of myself for not allowing something outside of my control to spiral me, but I was still vastly upset in a way I couldn’t even begin to explain. Old me would’ve been so stuck on that anger that I would’ve carried it with me for days, probably weeks, and then probably would’ve lashed out at those around me. Instead, I sat at my kitchen table with my child and my husband, stunned.
Pumping is far from my favorite. I’d rather nurse over pump however currently the way my life is set up, I work full time outside of the home so I have to pump for when I am away during those working hours. For the sake of full transparency, I’ll admit that being away from my baby for work feels like complete and utter torture. I feel like I’m missing out on so much being gone for eight plus hours a day so by the time I come home I’m over compensating. I more often than not refuse to do anything after work because that is my time to spend with my son. It’s bad enough that everyday life already takes some time from him having to prep for the next day, shower or make dinner. I do my best to include him in what I can for as long as he’s willing but still it doesn’t feel like quality. I miss the days of maternity leave when my life was consumed by his existence. When I didn’t need to worry about having a stash because fresh milk was always on tap.
As grateful as I am that my body has been able to nourish my child, the thought of it became even more stressful when I returned to work. Not only did I have to plan for my day, but I also had to plan for where and when I was going to pump when I was outside of my office, which I am about 95% of the time. Some days it makes me want to cry. It felt like on top of my full-time job, I was working full time to keep up with pumping. At least the extra breastmilk at the end of the week that I could freeze was almost like a token, a reminder of all I could produce, and I don’t just mean literally.
Breastmilk aside, my body carried an entire child to term. Something I secretly feared throughout my entire pregnancy wouldn’t happen because of the miscarriage I had experienced prior to conceiving my son. Yet it happened, and my body, which I was once notorious for abusing, was still able to nurture my baby in the most beautiful of ways.
My baby was the tiniest little muffin when he was born. For the first three weeks, he wore premie clothes because he was drowning in all his newborn/0-3m clothing. And then between weeks 5-8 weeks, he chunked up (probably from all the cluster feeding). Every day he grew and continues to grow, sometimes even overnight and it’s the most incredible thing to watch happen.
Not even losing 500 ounces of breastmilk could take away the amazing little man my son has become. And as upset as I was over my spoiled milk, the upset wouldn’t last long. Later in the day, while relaying the story to a friend over FaceTime, stuck in my same disbelief, my son took two steps forward. It reminded me that in this journey, probably nothing will go the way I imagined, but something incredible will still be produced in the end. So as much as I wanted to, I won’t cry over spoiled or spilled milk, trusting that God has other plans for me not to need all that stored milk.